


All die anderen haben so wenig, gebt mir auch das noch

by Traumfrau



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Eating Disorders, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Alternating, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-29 18:17:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21414550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Traumfrau/pseuds/Traumfrau
Summary: Richard takes certain criticisms to heart, and Till has to set him straight about a few things before his “self-improvement” kills him.
Relationships: Richard Kruspe/Till Lindemann
Comments: 14
Kudos: 58





	All die anderen haben so wenig, gebt mir auch das noch

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for detailed discussion/portrayal of an eating disorder.
> 
> Also, the Thanksgiving depicted obviously is not the American one, but the Erntedankfest celebrated in October.

_ ** Richard ** _

_ He wasn’t kidding when he said not touring isn’t good for him. _

_ Hey, looks like Maxime is getting a little sibling! _

_ GORDITOOOOOO!!! _

I set my phone down on the nightstand and roll to cuddle the edge of the mattress. Beside me, you’re snoring softly, and you whine at the loss of my body heat.

You asked me why I don’t sleep naked anymore. Why I won’t shower with you anymore. Why you have to turn the lights off before we make love.

I think you’re starting to take it personally. You think I’m falling out of love with you.

Nothing could be further from the truth, mein liebes Bärchen. 

I’m falling out of love with myself.

I don’t know that I ever loved myself to begin with. But if there was any love there, it died in Puerto Vallarta.

You find me again and mold yourself against my back. Your large hand slides under my t-shirt and splays warmly against my stomach, but I can’t take it, I feel like I can’t breathe, and I slide it back against my hip. How can you stand to lay beside me every night?

You’re mouthing at my neck now, but I’m not in the mood. I’m rarely ever in the mood anymore. I don’t push you away, I would never, ever push you away, darling, but I don’t respond, and after a few minutes, you give up. And now your arms are around me, clinging tightly, as if you’re afraid that I’m slipping away from you.

I know there’s no point in explaining myself. Explaining why I’m hurting you. I can already hear you in the back of my mind. _You’re perfect, Scholle, I love every single bit of you, just ignore them._ But I can’t.

The sun is stabbing through the gaps in the bedroom curtains now and you lean over to press your lips to mine. I cup your face in my hands, our foreheads pressed gently together, and I tell you that I love you.

You know, you love me too, you say, but you don’t sound convinced, and there’s hurt in your eyes. You disappear into the bathroom and I wait until I hear the latch click before I roll out of bed and tug one of your shirts over my head. It’s too big for me, and I can hide myself inside it. Perfect.

* * *

_ ** Till ** _

I made you breakfast, Scholle, why won’t you eat? You used to love my blueberry pancakes.

But then again, you used to love me, too.

I can feel you slipping away from me. I meant what I said, two hearts beat within me, yours and mine, and if yours fades away, so will I. 

But I understand, I think. You’ve finally realized what I’ve always known, that you deserve better than I can give you. You deserve better than a large, ugly, scarred golem. You deserve an angelic beauty, to match your own, but no matter how many times I stagger under the weight of those wings and burn under the fuel dripping down the back of my neck, I can never be that for you.

I only ask that you be honest with me. You’re lying, I know you’re lying when I tell you I love you and you say you love me more. I’m unlovable. I know this. I just wish you would stop giving me false hope with your words when you and I both know you’ll turn around and break me with your indifference. You always liked it rough, and I’d pick stupid fights and you’d throw things, the walls would shake, we’d both end up battered and bruised, but oh, it was absolute bliss and we’d kiss and make up and I’d say I didn’t mean it, and you’d say you weren’t even angry in the first place...

I’d take a thousand bruises from your fist over a nanosecond of this distance growing between us.

You’re mangling your breakfast now, idly smashing and tearing it with your fork. If you don’t like them, I can make you something else. Anything to make you smile at me again, Scholle. Anything to make you feel any of what you used to feel for me.

* * *

_ ** Richard ** _

I can’t take it anymore. I eat the pancakes, because I never could say no to you, baby, not when you turn those gorgeous emerald eyes my way. They taste delicious, by the way. They take me back, to when we were young and invincible and you’d make pancakes because it was your turn this morning, but I had to promise to make donuts tomorrow if you managed to steal the ingredients on the way home from the workshop.

But now disgust is pooling in my stomach along with my breakfast, and I tell you I’m heading to the corner store for more cigarettes. And reminding myself that I need to come home with some, because I don’t want you to know that I’m really going to the corner store because you’ll hear me being sick in the bathroom at home.

* * *

_ ** Till ** _

Something’s wrong, Scholle. I thought it was me, but now I’m not sure. It’s not like you to let relationships fizzle out this gradually. But something’s been wrong between us since New Year’s, and now it’s nearly Rosenmontag.

You rarely let me touch you any more, but when I hold you in your sleep now, I can feel your hipbones, your ribs...are you ill, my darling? You’re withdrawing from me. I always thought you could trust me, even if you couldn’t find it in your heart to need me anymore. I guess I can blame my naivety. It’s killing me, watching you waste away before my eyes, and you not even thinking enough of me to be honest with me. If I’m losing you, not metaphorically, but literally, please tell me. 

I deserve that much. If the next time you intend to let me carry you is within a box resting on the shoulders of your bandmates, I deserve to know.

* * *

_ ** Richard ** _

It’s getting harder and harder to do this. You make countless excuses for why I can’t leave your side, and I can’t deny you, I never could.

And now you’re sitting across the table from me, as I poke at my lettuce, and you ask me point blank if I’m dying.

And yes, inside, I’m dying, knowing I’ve let myself go, that I’m an embarrassment dragging along at your side.

But I lie. I’ve been getting quite good at it, lately. I force a smile and tell you everything’s fine, that yes, I feel great. I don’t tell you I’ve lost three and a half stone. I don’t tell you that the hunger pangs keep me awake at night. I merely tell you that I miss the feeling of your flesh against mine and I want to feel myself buried inside you, and we don’t even make it to the couch, we just sprawl on the floor of the hallway in a tangle of limbs. But you don’t finish, you can’t finish, and you tell me it’s because there’s something on your mind, but I know it’s because there’s something vile and disgusting on top of you and inside you.

* * *

_ ** Till ** _

You’ve finally let me touch you again.

I’m afraid to.

You look so fragile, Scholle, like your bones could pierce right through your pallid skin. I hate to see you like this. You’re so tired, now, I’ve lost count of the times you’ve had me carry you up to bed early, before we’ve even had a chance to eat dinner.

Oh. 

Oh my God, Scholle.

* * *

_ ** Richard ** _

The game of hide and seek is over, and I have lost.

You have a million questions, and I have precisely zero rational answers in return.

You’re crying now, and I hate myself more than ever because I’ve never once made you cry, not in a bad way, but this cuts you deeper than anything else I could have possibly done to you, and I know it now.

I’m sorry. 

I’m sorry for everything. For every lie, for every purge, for every stupid fucking thing I’ve done to try and make myself perfect for you again, when all the while I was taking what you loved from you.

You shout at me, and I take it because I know I deserve it, because I betrayed you, because I nearly robbed you of the only fucking thing you hold dear.

_Me_.

You love me. You never stopped loving me.

I love you, too. I always have.

You tell me that if I love you, I’ll stop doing this to myself.

I tell you that I think I want some blueberry pancakes.

* * *

_ ** Till ** _

Happy Thanksgiving, Scholle.

Our whole crazy family is around the table. Six idiots, the women crazy enough to marry four of us, and all the kids...well, the ones who aren’t chasing each other around the living room, anyway.

As we go around the table, everyone is thankful for the usual cliches.

But I’m just thankful to see you at the table, one too many glasses of wine into the night and insisting that you love everyone in the room. I’m thankful to see you going up for seconds, even though you dropped your plate and now you’re on your hands and knees trying to pick up the broken china before my dogs can lick the gravy off the shards.

And I’m thankful that tonight I’ll get to lay in bed with you, and you’ll wrap your strong arms around me and let me nuzzle my face against your belly.

I’m thankful for your belly most of all. It’s soft and warm, just like your heart, Scholle. It’s everything I love about you.

Fuck what they said.

More for me.


End file.
